


Doneness

by iblankedonmyname



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alchemy, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Play, Cat and Mouse Games, Catheters, Developing Relationship, Enemies With Benefits, Felching, Gross Ending, Hannibal POV, M/M, Sex Toys, Surreal Bestiality, Vore, Will POV, Will using Hannibal's kitchen is a kink right?, catch the killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iblankedonmyname/pseuds/iblankedonmyname
Summary: Doneness: the condition of being cooked to the desired degree.A new killer is hunted over a series of meals. Recipes included. This story explores Will’s attempted entrapment of Hannibal during Season 2.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 35
Kudos: 38





	1. RAW

**Author's Note:**

> I always assumed Hannibal’s office was in his home, then someone suggested this wasn’t the case...I wrote this with the understanding that they were in the same building. Just an FYI.
> 
> The recipes I used to make the chapter recipes will be linked at the end of the story.
> 
> Thank you [pierrot_dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierrot_dreams) for editing!

#  **Raw**

Hannibal began his day similar to any other, in the doorway of his open fridge. The selection was broad. He scanned the individual shrink-wrapped packets of assorted sweetmeats and precise cuts, each labeled with his own expert hand. Some were marked in a code that he’d developed for himself, lest any innocent guest opened the fridge looking for more wine only to discover a packaged liver marked _Jefferey McAffey_. 

It would be unfortunate if he had to kill someone for preventable reasons. Especially if the mistaken person was someone he actually liked. Thankfully, people like that were few and far between, but he couldn’t be too careful. 

Hannibal selected a packet labeled _sirloin, March 27,_ but moved it to the freezer to chill further instead. The other ingredients he gathered:

Eggs bought from a friend in the country.

Tarragon mustard, he made himself.

Worcestershire.

A ketchup alternative, because he ate a person’s intestines for less.

Tabasco, acceptable and sometimes craved.

Capers and caper berries, both pickled while visiting Pantelleria during an especially warm summer, three years ago.

Any day now, he expected a phone call from Jack Crawford. Hannibal was always called to the crime scenes first now. Will was too untrustworthy, too unstable. Still, he excelled at what he did. Despite Jack’s reluctance to call on Will, Hannibal’s deliberate vagueness would inevitably frustrate Jack. At first, Jack would be hesitant, but with a light push from Hannibal, Will would be summoned.

The phone call would come soon. There was a killer out there, after all. The first body was discovered two weeks ago. 

_Hannibal recalled the slow trudge up the tire-gouged road. The smell of clay, pine needles, and the archiving FBI agents’ disgust blended into a medley devoid of excrement and effluence that normally reeks off a corpse._

_At the crest of the curved road, further off the path in the sodden woods already bursting with Lenten roses, was a blackened stump. On the stump was a petrified man. His skin had been removed. The once-internal musculature was exposed to the cool spring air._

_However, the tissue was textured like wood, frozen like stone. The man was twisted into a fetal position. One arm was held up with his hand open in offering._

_“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” Hannibal said idly. The work was distracting enough to pull him from the dissatisfaction of muddying his monk straps on the walk up. Petrifying wood took thousands of years, so the body in front of him, hard like stone, yet textured like a fallen log, was a beautiful paradox. “Is he offering us his skin or his entire life?”_

_At the body’s feet, there was a white stone, about the size of a half-dollar. Chalky and pale, it wasn’t a common pebble._

_Will arrived at the crime scene an hour later emerging from a sleek black Navigator. Naturally, he was more equipped than Hannibal for the spring thaw. He wore boots and a waxed canvas coat. His mouth was set in the common, solemn frown of being presented with a new murder._

_His specific role, however, was more personal. While the agents present were nervous about their jobs, friends, and families, Will was the sole person bearing the mental weight of personally stepping into the killer’s shoes. It always plagued him. Hannibal saw it in the tendon clenching in his jaw and the slope of his shoulders. Will trailed behind Jack Crawford up to the body, which had stood for the last hour untouched on its pedestal._

_When Hannibal’s eyes caught Will’s, the approaching man looked less like a kicked dog and more like a cornered, wild animal. The reaction was only visible in the tightening of his pupils. They nodded to each other, an acceptable greeting between psychiatrist and patient for any onlookers._

_Most of the agents on-site knew the drama. Will had tried to murder him, and yet they continued to have a professional relationship in more ways than one. Both were Jack’s consultants on serial killers, but beyond that periodic responsibility, they would meet weekly for therapy. Despite this, they didn’t appear friendly._

_Will walked further ahead of Jack and Hannibal to circle the dead man, eyes sharp like a hawk at first before hazing as he succumbed to his unique talent. Seconds became minutes as he followed the actions of the murderer in his mind._

_It was uninteresting to watch. Will’s face pinched as he stood motionless. Beads of sweat broke out over his lip. He shuddered with increasing intensity._

_What Hannibal and Will had was beyond an outsider's understanding. They weren’t friends. This was true. The term ‘friends’ barely skimmed the surface. Although friendship was something Hannibal sought early in their interactions, their relationship was deepening. Hannibal knew the limitations of friendship. He’d mimicked it well enough with people his entire life, and like ‘putting on a happy face’ even when one felt far from happy, pretending to be a friend had a similar effect._

_But whenever Will appeared, Hannibal’s reaction was genuine, which was bizarre and thrilling. To finally feel his body respond in a smile on its own instead of an extension of his plotting mind was incredible._

_Will snapped out of his trance. He was drenched in sweat and shaking._

_“He loved this man, but not for what he was, but for his position in a greater equation. The position he’s in, this fetal submissive crouch, isn’t a description of how the killer felt about him, but simply the shape he had to be for the math to work properly.”_

_“Like an addition or subtraction mark.” Hannibal quipped to Jack._

_Jack, always stoic, didn’t pretend to appreciate Hannibal’s commentary. “Any insight on just how many people are going to be in this equation? Or what the equation is for?”_

_“Look around, Jack,” said Will, gesturing to the dark-barked trees encircling the clearing._

_Each branch was dotted with fragile green buds hesitant to break winter dormancy. Their stark lines overlapped against a bright white sky. The ground was spotted with new growth breaking through the mud and frost._

_Jack looked around more for show than to indicate any actual understanding._

_“Yes, and?”_

_“It’s beautiful. It’s for beauty. He’s making an equation for transformative beauty.”_

_Will’s voice cracked, unsure of his own joy in seeing this crafted majesty and horror at knowing there would be more petrified corpses pedestalled in oak groves._

_Will wished he was normal, but he was incredibly bad at pretending. Whereas Hannibal immersed himself in people and cloaked his disposition, Will was upfront. As expected, people shrunk away from him, unnerved and uncomfortable. It was a bold life path Hannibal didn’t take, but had the option to, early in his life. Will, packaged and labeled as mentally divergent from the rest of the population, bore the judgment of others in every aspect of his life, whereas Hannibal, carefully curated to appear normal and upstanding, lived his true life outside of judgment._

Back in his kitchen, Hannibal minced shallots while the meat chilled. He poured another cup from his coffee siphon. He added the pickled capers to let the mince soften, then the mustard. He opted to pinch in the parsley this time.

Hannibal removed the sirloin from the freezer. It was cold enough to numb the pads of his fingers as he slipped the meat free from its plastic sleeve and chopped it roughly into cubes. This meal called for some brutality. It tasted better if the meat was hassled. 

He dusted the chunks with salt and pepper, then coated them with virgin olive oil. After he whipped the seasoned meat with the sauce before shaping a well for three glistening yellow eggs. One final, sharp whisk blended the eggs until they held like mortar. 

He plated the entire bowl onto two china dishes and sculpted the mixture into perfect cylinders. The final touches were two toasted baguette slices. He finished them with a blow torch until one corner on each smoked black. These were placed upright in the mixtures alongside a fat caper berry. 

With one final inspection at his counter in the morning light, breakfast was served. He carried the plates out into the dining room where Will stood waiting by the window, cup of coffee in his hands.

* * *

_Steak tartare (serves 2):_

  * _3 Egg yolks_
  * _Lean beef_
  * _Virgin olive oil_
  * _Real tarragon mustard_
  * _Shallot, minced_
  * _Capers, minced_
  * _Parsley, pinched_
  * _Salt to taste_
  * _Black pepper, freshly ground_
  * _Worcestershire sauce to taste_
  * _Tabasco to taste_
  * _Tomato sauce to taste_
  * _Lemon juice, optional_
  * _Toasted bread_



  1. _Chill beef._
  2. Dice meat by hand roughly.
  3. Lightly coat the meat with the oil.
  4. Mix all ingredients with the meat.
  5. Serve immediately with crispy toasted bread. 




	2. BLUE

#  **Blue**

With any serial killer, there always had to be more than one death, and the elaborate nature inherent in this first murder suggested that this wasn’t a one-off. There would be more. However, it would take some time for the second body to appear. This latest serial killer took their time because their process required time. Whatever they did to transform a decomposing corpse into a fossil involved days of work and attention. 

That was the assessment of Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller once the dead man was relocated to the morgue. The contorted body still sat on its stump. It was unable to be untwisted, but the outstretched arm was bluntly chopped at the shoulder and lay on the autopsy table alongside an angle grinder.

“You see in the cross-cut the bits of bone, teeth?” Jimmy gestured at the shoulder with a pen. “The body was positioned into this shape using a pretty complicated armature. Then over several days, it was coated with fire-resistant material to make a cast. We think plaster. Finally, the body and the cast were fired together in a furnace hot enough to cremate the body.”

“With the body burned out, the cavity had to be filled slowly over four days to let the previous layer harden,” said Brian. “There are minor changes between layers. See here?” He pointed to a subtle, horizontal line on the body.

“And the skin?” Jack interjected.

“Removed before death,” Jimmy replied through a frown. Even though he witnessed murder daily, it still affected him. “What we were able to collect from the bone marrow, the victim was paralyzed, skinned, and then finally killed through suffocation.”

“He died in the cast,” Brian finished simply.

The victim’s name was Roger Vanhoight, a fifty-five-year-old man who lived alone. He’d been reported missing by his work, a private practice law firm on the West Coast. The fact that a Los Angeles lawyer ended up across the United States skinned and petrified was fascinating.

The last picture taken of Roger was him standing in the full California sun in a sharp suit receiving the keys to a new Mercedes sedan. He had quite a resume of successes from the firm, wins for corporations such as DOW and Camel. The killer was bold to go after such high-profile prey.

“The original is so old he’s fossilized,” Will said distantly.

“While the killer cleanses the skin with a free conscience,” Hannibal broke in.

“Yes. A museum can showcase bog bodies and mummies because they are so long dead they are past being considered people. They can be dehumanized once they are a spectacle or at a certain stage of decomposition.”

“Mummies were used as paint pigments, stage props, and party games during the Victorian era. Although the treatment stemmed from Eurocentric racism as well the Victorian macabre, it stands that at a certain point past death, a person isn’t a person anymore.”

“The murderer is speeding up that process,” Will finished. 

Will stared openly at the stone figure’s hacked off limb beckoning him from the table. Free of its body, the amputated arm, lying heavy and alone, had all the delicacy of a broken Michelangelo.

“So we’re looking for a murderer with access to large-scale casting materials, a lot of time alone, and a furnace?” said Jack tightly. 

“Also a place to process the skin,” said Will. “Tan their hides, if you prefer.”

Jack didn’t look like he preferred that language. His face became as tight as his voice. 

“What’s the white stone?” He said sharply.

Brian looked excited for a moment. 

“Get this, it’s urine! More specifically, it’s Roger’s urine. The DNA matches.”

“Some people believe urine has its own health properties in this dehydrated form,” Jimmy explained. “Purifying abilities.”

Hannibal pulled the photograph from Roger’s folder to study it again. His skin, while he wore it, was the sun-baked brown of a constant beach dweller. It was both tight over the bone and loose where gravity pulled. It reminded Hannibal of aged beef, marbled with fat, hitting a hot pain. The white lard melted clear while heating and turned to gelatine overnight in the pan. Skin crisped to bubbling in a flash fryer with cayenne and salt. 

Armed with fresh inspiration, Hannibal stopped daydreaming and looked for Will.

But Will was already gone, either to gasp in the chill air outside the morgue or to painstakingly separate himself from someone else’s persona. Or perhaps both. This was a loss for Hannibal, who was forced to ask Jack Crawford to dinner in Will’s absence. 

Jack seemed pleasantly surprised by the offer. Hannibal wondered how much Jack suspected that he was the Chesapeake Ripper. He must have an inkling. Will had ranted to Jack about Hannibal’s guilt for months before his release from the hospital. Despite the mistrust circulating around Will, these were accusations that couldn’t easily be forgotten. 

Perhaps Jack’s physical response to the invitation -- the saliva that filled his mouth; the bob of his throat as he swallowed -- wasn’t the anticipation of a delicious meal but a nervous tic. 

Hannibal attempted to find Will again before returning home but had no luck.

Back in his kitchen, Hannibal’s inspiration started with skin, which he began to separate from back fat. The scraped lard was dished into a slow cooker to render while the skin was placed carefully in a sweltering oven to dry for a few hours. 

With the lengthy prep work underway, Hannibal perused through his cellar for a pairing red and an appropriately smoky cognac that he wouldn’t mind burning off in a pan.

Jack arrived. Pleasantries were exchanged; the wine was poured. Hannibal left Jack in the dining room while he retreated to the kitchen to construct his entrees. The whole house permeated with the pungent scent of piperidine. Hannibal plucked the steaks from the oven, then laid them onto plates dolloped with bechamel and topped them with an almost lighter-than-air wafer of pork rind. 

He carried the plates out to Jack, who was waiting at the dining room table. 

“Forgive me,” said Hannibal, “but I was inspired to make a heartier meal than what the arriving spring season dictates.”

“As always, Hannibal, I think I prefer it when you work untethered by my limited expectations.” 

Hannibal preferred open-mindedness in his guests. But Jack Crawford was a clever one. The sentence was constructed to put Hannibal at ease, but why wouldn’t he be at ease? He was in his own home, after all, and Jack was about to partake in a meal created to expand his limited palate, not only his expectations. If Jack was constructing a trap, Hannibal was already ten paces beyond the site where he was building. 

In a way, Hannibal had similar suspicions of Jack as he did of Will. Where the relationships differed was that, with Jack, it was business. While Hannibal liked Jack as a friend, their relationship was founded on Hannibal’s need for information. 

Jack hunted the Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper. It was a simple equation.

However, Hannibal’s relationship with Will was founded on an unfamiliar need. Hannibal couldn’t entirely understand the need _to be seen_.

Jack chomped on the air-fried skin wafer and his eyes rolled back dramatically.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” he said once he’d recovered the power of speech. 

Hannibal appreciated the sentiment but didn’t agree. There was nothing particularly special about the bank clerk he peeled to make the rind. 

Jack cut into the small steak round. 

“This is cooked very rare,” he blurted, surprised. 

And it was. While warm throughout, the bite was a dark shimmery red with barely a ring of brown on the edges.

“For Spring,” said Hannibal. “Vitality hidden under a facade of decay.”

Jack didn’t look convinced that there was a connection there, but he ate, and, according to his reaction, still enjoyed the taste. The second bite he raised on his fork, “To Spring,” before biting down.

Hannibal raised his glass in a toast before taking a sip. 

“The winter was particularly bleak this year. Darker still with all the hardships of your life at present. Even with this killer, I’m relieved to see the tulips bloom once again.” 

He had even bought some earlier, their presence a delicate splash of red on his dining room mantel.

“Yes, Bella,” said Jack, his shoulders slumping. “When she can, she sits by the window in our room. There are daffodils in the yard now. I’m not sure she wanted to see the winter end.”

“There is a kind of purity in winter. It’s pure in its singularity. Some would believe purity can only come from death, the nigredo to the albedo. I’m sure Bella would agree.”

“Possibly.” Jack pondered his wine glass. After a moment, he said, “Our killer likes purity as well. Did inspiration strike after the briefing today?”

Hannibal was very interested to see what this killer would produce next. Roger was so beautifully done. Will was right: Roger had been loved, but selfishly. His life force sacrificed for another. The killer was making his own perpetual spring, using nature to remove himself from nature. A newborn appeared in Hannibal’s mind, still wet from placenta and sticky earth as it emerged from the snow like a crocus. 

“Nothing fresh comes to mind,” said Hannibal, “but you’ll be the first to know.”

Jack rested his silverware on a now empty plate. He leaned back with his wine. 

“Any issues I should know about between you and Will?”

“Issues?” said Hannibal. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“He tried to kill you and has only recently stopped trying to convince me of your involvement in the Chesapeake Ripper murders.”

Actually, Will had tried to kill him twice. The first attempt was indelicate. Matthew Brown, Will’s extension while he was in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, strung Hannibal up and was prepared to bleed him dry before hanging him. Ultimately, Hannibal was thankful Jack stopped the attempt. 

The other was when Will appeared immediately after being released from said Hospital in Hannibal’s kitchen. He had a handgun. Hannibal had known Will wouldn’t use something so impersonal. Despite the weapon between them, Hannibal was elated he had come back with hunger and threats. It meant much more than the ridiculous attempt on his life by Matthew. 

“His willingness to continue therapy with me and his realization of my innocence is a sign that he is recovering from his previous disorder,” said Hannibal. “I have to thank you for connecting us earlier. He would have been lost without my guidance.” 

Without Hannibal, Will would be alone and still dropping his eyes to the floor anytime he spoke to anyone. He’d mope back home to his dogs, scratch their ears, and curse his genius for isolating him. The Will that entered Hannibal’s office now crackled with barely-contained vengeance, bordering on the divine. It delighted Hannibal. Before meeting Will, Hannibal hadn’t been aware that anyone could delight him. He was indeed thankful to Jack.

“You’ll let me know if you ever suspect otherwise?” said Jack.

“If I believe it to be a real threat to my life, yes, of course, Jack.”

* * *

_Steak au Poivre (serves 2):_

  * _2 Filet Mignon_
  * _Salt_
  * _Whole black peppercorns_
  * _½ cup Refined lard_
  * _¼ cup Shallots, chopped_
  * _⅓ cup Cognac_
  * _¼ cup Heavy cream_
  * _Fresh cracklings_
  * _Fresh chicharrones_



  1. _Preheat oven to 93°C._
  2. Season with salt.

  3. Crush peppercorns in mortar and pestle, then press mixture evenly onto both sides of steaks. Crush peppercorns with cracking.

  4. Heat a cast-iron skillet, then add lard, then add steaks, turning over once, sear.

  5. Keep steaks warm in the oven while making the sauce.

  6. Pour off fat from skillet, then add shallots and refined lard, stirring and scraping up brown bits, until shallots are brown.

  7. Add Cognac and boil, stirring, until liquid is reduced to a glaze. Add cream and boil sauce, stirring occasionally, until reduced by half. Add remaining lard and cook over low heat, swirling skillet, until incorporated.

  8. Serve sauce under steaks with the rind on top.





	3. RARE

#  **Rare**

The industrial chimney billowed with smoke. On the ground, Daniel monitored the temperature in front of the closed combustion chamber. He had rigged the chamber to be gas-fed, and according to the thermometer and pressure sensor, the chimney was working well. 

Bart, his landlord and the factory’s owner, was on his weekly sight visit and had come over to say hello. Inevitably, this led to him asking what the chimney was for. 

Daniel popped a stick of tobacco in his mouth. 

“Pottery kiln. Soda firing. A real shame not to restore it.” 

This last bit was true. Cleaning out the old smokestack had taken several months. It was cramped work in the Arkansas winter. However, Masonry was easy. Formulaic. The hardest part was cracking off the massive cast iron door and scraping off the rust. He had to move it with an engine crane but once resealed, the door was as good as new. Not bad for something that was cast in 1879.

Before Daniel, the old factory was growing weeds on the roof, but now it was not only a functional building but a beautiful one. The main space featured rough-hewn beams and south-facing skylights. All restored to their turn-of-the-century glory. Daniel spent a lot of time bringing the building back from the brink. A very successful leather tannery rented it.

Still, Bart had the audacity to look Daniel up and down and quip. 

“You’re doing ceramics now too?” 

This pissed Daniel off. The upkeep of the grounds wasn’t easy. Daniel was already there 24/7. He deserved down-time. Bart shouldn’t sneer at what Daniel chose to do with it, but he did anyway.

Daniel wasn’t enslaved to Bart’s opinion. His real-life, beyond what Bart expected of him, was answering the most important question ever pursued by man.

Daniel and Bart spent several minutes watching the smoking chimney in annoyed silence. Daniel spitting periodically. Eventually, they both heard tires pull up behind them.

“Excuse me, gentlemen! But where is the visitor's entrance for the leather tannery?” 

The face poking out of the passenger seat window was so made-up, to Daniel, it barely looked human.

“Oh! Right over here ma’am. I’ll walk you over!” Bart’s mood flipped from surly to southern gentleman in a blink. 

Daniel watched his landlord guide the tourist’s car to the factory door. Daniel spit.

Almost daily, men and women in wild suits and sunglasses would arrive to tour the leather facility. From what he overheard, the ‘experience’ was ‘rustic’ and ‘authentic’. The tanners would shuttle their high-end clients into back rooms to design custom orders. The clients would gush about the quality of their work, the quality of their materials, the quality of their space, the quality of their customer service. Then they would drop ten thousand dollars on a dog collar, and complain later that the leather had a wrinkle in it.

Daniel couldn’t understand hubris, but he could utilize stupidity.

* * *

The day Will had reappeared asking for therapy was one of the biggest surprises Hannibal had experienced in years. His curiosity proved stronger than any concept of self preservation. He had to know what Will was up to. 

And so now, weeks later, Hannibal was concluding yet another therapy session with Will.

Despite the frequency of these visits, Hannibal could see a familiar tension in him. Hannibal liked to believe this had nothing to do with the fact that, less than a few months ago, Will had threatened to kill him at gunpoint, convinced he was the Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal knew that Will was still convinced, and rightly so. 

Hannibal would lose all respect for Will if he changed his stance now. It was pleasant to be recognized and treated appropriately. 

Will’s tenseness was owing not only to sitting across from a man he knew to be a serial killer, but also the dawning realization that he was following down the same path. 

Their scheduled hour always left both of them exposed. Despite being the psychiatrist in this arrangement, Hannibal was acutely aware of how raked-over he felt at its completion. 

Not that either of them kept track of the hour anymore. Eventually, they’d relocate to the kitchen to drink wine and prepare dinner. Tonight was no different. They found their way into the kitchen.

Will leaned against the expanse of marble countertop and peered bleakly into his drink.

Based on the Nebbiolo they were drinking, Hannibal picked two-thirty day dry-aged porterhouse steaks to cook. He deftly sliced off the white coating to reveal the darkened interior, softened by controlled decomposition. 

Will leaned forward and breathed in the scent of raw meat. The steaks were aromatic, but lightly, unlike the heavy scent of a sixty-day age or the pungent funk of a hundred-day. After one hundred days of aging, Will’s flesh would exude similar aromas to beef. The flavor would depend on whether Hannibal slaughtered Will on a day like today when he was calm instead of fearful. 

But today was not the day. Hannibal wasn’t sure when the day would come.

“What are you planning?” Will’s mouth wiggled wryly.

“Sous vide,” Hannibal stated.

“Hmm,” Will murmured noncommittally. “What do you think he’s planning?

“The killer?” Hannibal thought. “He’s intelligent and unappreciated in his obsessions. What have you seen in his psyche?”

Will grit his teeth on the latest sip of wine like the taste suddenly became bitter.

“His mind is,” he rolled his answer on his tongue, “archaic, an old-world darkness.”

Hannibal hummed in agreement.

The cuts Hannibal picked were tomahawk steaks. He often opted for bone-in steaks in the event he wanted to work over an open flame. Tonight, this was not the case. He wanted to focus more on Will. He wanted something flavorful and soft. He cut the bones free of the muscle and packaged them for stock later. 

Hannibal knew what was in Will’s psyche. In previous sessions, Will revealed he was plagued by a demon in the form of a massive, heavy-crowned stag. Obviously, the stag was Will. He had amputated it from his mind and didn’t recognize it as an expression of the desires he considered unacceptable. But it was his life force as well. A symbol of his animal nature and his sensitivity outside of social structures. A deer was nothing without its instinct -- and Will had a wealth of instinct. Empathy was a double-edged sword, or in the case, a rack of antlers with many tips to either skewer in offense or defense.

Hannibal ground salt and pepper over the meat and pressed the flakes into place with the heel of his hand. Then both steaks were shrink-wrapped and submerged in a sous vide pot. 

Will’s stomach growled.

“Sorry,” Will muttered, obviously embarrassed.

“Never apologize for what you can’t control,” said Hannibal. “It’s a natural reaction, but unfortunately, dinner won’t be ready for an hour. In the meantime, hors d’oeuvres.”

Hannibal crossed the kitchen too quickly for Will to flinch away. Will was slightly smaller than Hannibal, which put him at the perfect height to pull his head back and expose more of him. Hannibal found the pulse point in Will's neck with an open mouth. He kissed down the column on his neck to his shoulder. To properly tenderize the flesh, Hannibal had to unbutton Will’s shirt. He worked the muscle until Will whined, then tugged his shirttails free and moved lower.

Will refrained from touching Hannibal. Hannibal liked remaining unsullied even while he sank to his knees to access Will’s belt buckle, button, and zipper. The process was reminiscent of field dressing an animal, peeling back a man’s fly like peeling back skin. 

If only gutting a creature was as bloodless as uncovering an expanse of smooth, pale belly under cotton. A dark splash of hair trailed up to his navel. It was always impressive to Hannibal that Will denied himself so much, yet his body was so quick to respond to any stimulation. 

Will spread his thighs wider, knuckles turning as white as the countertop he was gripping with both hands. 

Will’s smell was headier here. Hannibal inhaled a lungful of the scent, then exhaled on Will’s swelling erection. He wasn’t wearing underwear, which gave Hannibal the impression that he was being seduced. A radical game for this timid empath, but Hannibal was still eager for it, happy to assist in Will’s machinations. Seduction went both ways after all and based on Will’s choked yelp when Hannibal began sucking him off, Will was equally at risk of succumbing to Hannibal’s schemes.

His tongue wet the length of Will’s cock and curled over the crease at his tip. Hannibal was salivating, which if Will was to be swallowed was an aid in digestion. Saliva was full of enzymes that break down food, but it was also full of hormones. Melatonin flooded Hannibal’s mouth, soothing him. 

Hannibal formed a tight seal around Will. He established an unhurried pace, dragging another sound from Will.

Physicality was new in their interactions. Will had initiated it after Margot’s surprise visit to his home. Hannibal considered that jealousy for Alana was a factor or perhaps Will’s need to move into harm’s way to protect others. Still, Hannibal was stirred by Will’s decision to make their relationship physical. 

During that first kiss, he could practically feel Will’s heart jackhammer through his lips. It had been a long time since a kiss rocked him. For decades, he’d feigned romance with others because it was fascinating to watch a lover’s behavior change. It was also very easy for him. His interests always leaned towards grandiose gestures and careful study. He wasn’t above enjoying sex either. There was no grace in his celibacy.

Hannibal believed this unfounded interest in Will stemmed from the fact that Will knew he was a cannibal. This fact sent most people running away, not into his bed. Will knew he had abnormal desires, desires that were threatening, and still chose to pursue him. Even if it was a ploy, Hannibal wasn’t going to pass up this new experience.

That was a month or so ago, and now, Hannibal knelt at Will’s feet fellating him. He enjoyed the sensation of his own enzymes intermingling with Will’s seeping hardon. The vein in his cock was becoming more pronounced, and Hannibal fussed it with his tongue at each pass. Will was arching into him, chasing his mouth when he pulled back. Hannibal exaggerated the motion, waiting longer at the end of each suck until Will’s hand shot off the table and caught the back of Hannibal’s neck.

Fellatio became irrumatio. Hannibal was being force-fed as the hand pinned him into receiving Will’s thrusts. His rhythm was more punishing, but Hannibal slack-jawed, wet and open for him. He kept his focus lax on Will’s gritted teeth and wrinkled forehead. Watching Will let go was its own high. As he pounded in and out, he was spilling. His unique taste was deepening, becoming richer, thicker. 

At his completion, Will bayed weakly like a dying creature and came. Will shooting into his throat denied Hannibal the pleasure of savoring him fully, but as Will’s gripping hand slacked, Hannibal took what he could, rolled the blend in his mouth, picked out the highlights of umami and bitterness.

Will was crumpled against the counter, eyes closed, attempting to stabilize his breathing.

A breath passed while Hannibal put his patient back in his pants, zipped him up. When he stood, he finally kissed Will’s mouth, gifting him back his own fluids. The other man accepted with a sigh.

Hannibal liked Will’s mouth. He liked the tickling scratch of his facial hair, his accepting tongue, and boxy canine-like teeth. Everyone had their own taste. Will’s was something secret, something animal. He liked it. A few nights back, he had a dream where Will’s taste was served on a plate, but Hannibal was unable to find a wine pairing. His extensive cellar was inadequate. 

The dream ended when Will’s demon stag appeared and punctured his chest with its antlers. Hannibal, coughing on his own blood pooling into his lungs, realized the proper pairing was his blood. When he startled awake, he even woke Alana. 

Hannibal could keep kissing Will for much longer, he liked it so much, but what triggered this flirtation was Will’s stomach growling. Hannibal didn’t want to keep him waiting. He moved away from Will towards the fridge door. 

“Palate cleansed? Nebbiolo is too strong for pannerone.” He placed a cheese block on the cutting board, moved around to slice it. It was unnerving how easily he slipped out of time when they were physical. 

Will was particularly edible at the moment, cow-eyed and flushed. Hannibal felt full just looking at him.

“Y-yes. I’d like some.”

“Only a little, then. Don’t want to spoil your appetite.”

At the end of the hour, the steaks were cooked, seared, and still a dark red when cut through. The meat shared a plate with gremolata, fried chickpeas, and patate al forno. Hannibal and Will finished the bottle of Nebbiolo, and then another. Late into the evening, lounging in Hannibal’s study, Will fell asleep, and given how challenging that was for Will, Hannibal left him after draping a blanket over him.

In the morning, Hannibal made Will steak tartare and served him in the dining room. Will ate distractedly before he went home to feed his dogs. He’d missed them while incarcerated, and felt guilty about not returning to them last night. 

Hannibal cleaned up. Less than an hour later, Jack called. Another body had been found.

* * *

_Sous Vide Steak (serves 1 but easily multiplied):_

  * _1 Dry-aged steak_
  * _Salt and ground black pepper_
  * _2 tbsp Parsley, chopped_
  * _2 tbsp Extra virgin olive oil_
  * _1/2 tsp Garlic, minced_
  * _1 Lemon_
  * _1 tbsp Butter_



  1. _Set water temperature to 58° C._
  2. Season the steak with salt and pepper, seal in plastic.

  3. Cook for 1 hour.

  4. Prepare Gremolata: Combine parsley, olive oil, lemon zest, lemon juice, and garlic. Stir. Add salt and pepper to taste.

  5. Sear steaks in cast iron with butter.

  6. _Top with sauce, serve_.




	4. MEDIUM-RARE

#  **Medium-Rare**

Bach’s Italian Concerto played as Hannibal butchered the rack of ribs. On the slab in front of him was a large cut, twelve ribs in all. It made more sense to buy large. He’d use every piece, albeit not tonight. He hacked into the chine bone with a hand saw before cracking off the feather bones. The bones snapping under his hands, when combined with the swelling music, made Hannibal close his eyes and reflect on the second victim of their newest killer.

_The latest body was in another forest clearing. Will must have barely made it home because he was on the scene when Hannibal arrived, his glasses on, wearing fresh clothes._

_The petrified corpse, like the one before, was without skin, naked to the viscera. She was beautiful, like well-carved marble, and pink in the fingertips. Hannibal almost expected her to step down from her perch like Galatea. Her placid expression was calm and understanding, gazing down at the viewer standing in a field of bloodroot. At her feet was a familiar white stone._

_Jimmy produced a file. They already identified the victim as Linda Pitcoft. She worked as a receptionist in Montana. Her latest photo was with her daughter’s family and their fluffy family cat. She was widowed and was taking lavish trips, buying fancy bags. Her daughter had reported her missing several weeks ago. The report said, Linda was happier than she’d ever been, and had no reason to disappear._

_Throughout this report, Will had stood motionless in front of the radiant figure. Now he twitched away from her, sweaty and shaking._

Back in the kitchen, the concerto moved on to act 2. Hannibal returned to the cut he wanted, a four rib prime roast, which he removed using a ten-inch cimeter knife. The knife slipped between the ribs without any resistance, a perfectly sharp tool. With tonight’s dinner portion removed, he carefully separated the fat in a sheet from the rest of the roast to remove the common tough sinew hiding behind. He also lopped off sinew on the edges, the shoulder peak too.

Between the ribs, Hannibal carved out the intercostal muscles and set them aside for later. They made an exquisite ragu. The protruding bones he stripped clean before flipping the roast over to cut the membrane free. If he had to pick gristle from his teeth at the end of the night, he’d be incredibly annoyed.

_“What are you seeing, Will?” Jack asked._

_“He liked her more than Roger.”_

_The woman’s arms were thrown up high above her head. The fingers posed as if between her hands there was a crown she was placing herself._

_“The skin,” Will went on, “is more than a trophy to him.” Will circled the body, searching for words with his hovering hands. “Removing it is a necessity because the inner workings of a person…”_

_“Are more interesting,” Hannibal concluded for him._

_“Yes. Like a clockmaker setting the gears in a clear casing.”_

_“Is our man a clockmaker?” asked Jack. He was a diligent hen, always picking for motivation._

_“No,” said Will. “Something simpler.”_

_Will studied the woman’s feet, and so Hannibal paid equal attention._

_The bones were exceedingly fine in the toes. The tendons wrapped the scant muscles like a fly cocooned in a spider’s web. This victim stood upon a wooden pedestal like the previous. The wood was pure and white._

_Will kneeled down for a closer look. “The killer doesn’t want their feet touching the ground.”_

_“Why?”_

_Will shrugged. “The ground is dirty, and she, well, she isn’t. Her skin touched the world and without it. She’s free of her old life.”_

_“Uh-huh.” Jack scratched his chin._

_Will squinted up at her towering above him. He stood shakily and backed away._

_“She’s supposed to be paired with Roger. Do you have a picture of the first body?”_

_Jimmy Price produced a photo and handed it to Will. Hannibal hovered above the snapshot but kept focused on Will as he held the photo adjacent to the woman in his view. Next to each other in this way, the first body was offering his skin to the crowned woman. Will cocked his head._

_“Isn’t that something,” quipped Jimmy._

_Will handed the picture back._

_“This isn’t finished. There will be more.”_

_“What a tableau he’s making,” Hannibal murmured. He glanced at Will._

_Will glanced back. His mouth twisted up on one corner and down on the other._

The Italian concerto was coming to an end. The third movement was the most vibrant, and Hannibal couldn’t help but smile to himself. He finished butchering the rest of the cut, packed each piece in plastic, and moved them into the freezer. The rib roast he set aside. 

He knew this recipe intrinsically. The marinade was basic. Garlic, minced. Rosemary, chopped. The stems removed. Oil. Salt and pepper. Nothing too complicated, but a good cut needed very little to accentuate its flavor. The roast, once coated, was left alone to rest. The fat was tied back on to hold the juices in place. 

He took his time preparing this dinner. At the hour, he untied the roast, wrapped it with prosciutto, and while it cooked, he cut figs. Their juice spilled out of their flesh each time he held one firmly on the cutting board. He sliced too many and ate the leftovers with honey standing at the counter. 

Will arrived. They drank their customary glass of wine, then settled down at the dinner table with the roast between them.

When Will sliced into the flesh of the meat, it parted like a lover’s thighs. The red folds seeped under the serrated knife, adding to the vital pool surrounding its pieces. He drenched the slice in the plate’s liquids, swirling it, collecting the flavor, before spearing a prosciutto strip onto the exposed fork points. 

Hannibal’s pulse elevated as he watched Will bring the bite to his mouth and clean off the tines between his teeth.

There were many ways people expressed pleasure. Hannibal’s favorites weren’t grandiose. He found loud exclamations distasteful, but the subtle ones were exceptionally exciting. Only a collector, paying attention, could catch these hints. Hannibal was a collector, and was always paying attention to Will, who when pleased closed his eyes and hummed a single note. Hannibal would often find himself alone and repeatedly striking that same note on his harpsichord. He enjoyed it so much. 

Will made that sound now, to Hannibal’s elation, and went in for another slice.

Hannibal was in everyone he killed. That’s why he spent so long cooking them. It was to transform them further, become them, absorb them into his life force. He also shared them. It was the best gift he gave, to feed someone a meal of someone else. 

So when Will pronged another strip of prosciutto, which was not pig at all, and swallowed, Hannibal thought of himself as the bolus passing down Will’s esophagus. Inside was constricting, warming. Flexing muscles forced him further down, past the internal sphincters, and into the stomach fluids. The burning acid began to liquefy his body into basic components to keep Will energized, healthy, and alive. It was agony. 

Hannibal quenched his thirst with a sip of wine.

“But what is ‘good living’ to you?” he focused back on their continuing conversation. 

“I assume it’s the same as anyone’s,” Will wondered in the pause between another bite. 

Hannibal suspected that Will was incredibly aware of his hyper-fascination, and was minutely dragging out each savory morsel, rolling it that much longer on his tongue. 

Hannibal was indecently hot. That scrap of prosciutto was passing into Will’s small intestine, where it would be dissolved further. Hannibal almost felt its absorption into Will’s body through his own pores. He was unable to prevent himself from blatantly staring at Will’s swallowing throat.

“A good life is hardly universal,” he pressed on. 

In the past, when he hosted meals for others, he experienced this same rush. It was a communal _entering_ that was akin to reaching godhood. He was the host. They ate of his body, the people he’d made, and achieved their own ecstasy. But feeding Will was different. It was like eating in front of a mirror. He was Ouroboros, in front of Will, devouring his own tail for eternity.

Hannibal wished to eat him almost as much as he wished to be within him. It was uncommon he wanted someone alive more than he wanted them splayed open, bleeding out. Edible. 

“Some would say religion is the key to a good life. Are you religious, Will?”

* * *

Will was not religious. He went through enough of that as a child in the south. Hannibal knew this.

Will played along regardless. 

“Religion is an overwrought metaphor. A good life is simpler than that. Or at least should be simpler.”

During Will’s childhood, so many people went to religion, and no one was happier for it. Will often thought they would live better lives if they learned to accept their situations without the divine. He had. But he had to remind himself, he was also an asocial nutcase that hated church and hated their many functions. The cold seats, the fake smiles, and the constant touching were the disdain of his childhood existence. The divine wasn’t the only reason people welcomed God into their lives, the real lure was the shared commonality with other people. Even at a young age, Will was aware that he’d get none of that.

Hannibal’s lip twitched.

“What constitutes ‘simple’ changes from person to person. I, for one, have been accused of being complicated, whereas my life is tantamount to simplicity.”

Will glanced around dramatically at the table spread and the sleek dining room inhabiting a beautifully-maintained house. 

“And all this is what then?”

Hannibal’s smile lived in his eyes more than his lips.

“An expression of living simply,” he purred.

Will hid his own smile behind his wine glass. Everything always appeared simple for Hannibal. To Hannibal, life was simple not by what he chose to fill his life with but what questions he chose to rule it. This was the definition of Hannibal’s religion. For Will, deciphering what those ruling questions were was the hard part. 

“What do you think this latest killer considers a good life?”

Hannibal finished swallowing, let his knife and fork rest. 

“An everlasting one.”

“Immortality?” Will said incredulously.

“Accused of Egyptian magic, Girolamo Segato was prompted to destroy all his work on petrification of the human body. Society wasn’t ready for it, so his process was lost forever. Society doesn’t want immortals. It certainly doesn’t want life eternal either.”

Will played with the bite at the end of his fork in thought. 

“The killer is living a very simple life then, staying out of the limelight. Why does he reveal himself now?”

“Maybe he found the answer he sought.” Hannibal dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

Will considered his bloody plate and the half-eaten figs. 

To think a killer was out in the world at this moment that believed he could be immortal if he only killed enough people. Arranged them in the right ways. It was as disturbing as it was laughable. They finished dinner languidly. Will drew out each bite. He wanted to savor the meat and also Hannibal’s reaction.

Later in Hannibal’s study, they drank scotch in front of the fireplace. Flames shivered in their eyes. Heat blasted their thighs. Hannibal looked unearthly in the glow of the fire, so Will was incited to move closer, grip Hannibal’s waist with both hands, and kiss him. 

The scotch helped settle Will’s panicked deer heart, and the absurdly good meal quieted his stomach. It wasn’t easy to forget that he was playing a cat and mouse game with a man-eating tiger that had bit him once already. Hannibal had framed Will. 

Still, the ploy to get into Hannibal’s head got easier. He was settling into his role as bait, and it wasn’t without perks.

The first time he kissed Hannibal, Will was positive that when he pulled back he’d be several quarts of blood lighter, minus a few vital organs. The idea that a person could threaten a killer’s livelihood, return to his home for therapy, and then seduce him without immediate detection and the repercussions associated with that detection was almost beyond Will’s imagination. 

When instead Hannibal leaned into the kiss and caught Will’s face to prevent him from ending it, Will became unmoored. After he went home, he found himself propped up in his dark living room. He was unable to stop reliving how soft the kiss was, the smooth edge of Hannibal’s coat lapels under his fingers, and the delighted curl to his mouth corners when Will did break away at last. He revisited the moment again and again until the morning.

But that was the first time, now Will was settling into it. Hannibal cupped Will’s cheek, kissed him back.

Ultimately, bait was a sacrifice. Will couldn’t forget that. The fish was either caught, the bait eaten, or the fish roamed free, the bait drowned or recovered and used again.

Still Will was surprised the fish were biting at all. Hannibal had Alana too, who was open water fare with no obvious hooks attached. Hannibal must be a very greedy fish, but big catches always were, lest they would not be big in the first place. The whole situation made Will empathetic to the worms he hooked. If they were lucky, maybe they enjoyed it. It said a lot about Will that he did.

A fish didn’t worship the worm, did it? Will had a strange impression that maybe it did.

In the morning, Will cooked four trout in a pan. Each one was wrapped in bacon and dusted with thyme and cornmeal. He’d brought them last night as a dinner gift because buying wine for Hannibal gave him ulcers. In the morning light, the kitchen wasn’t as cave-dark as it was at night. Their gelatinous eyes mournfully stared up at him as he puckered them black, doused them with lemon. The bacon wasn’t behaving like normal.

When Will placed the serving down in front of Hannibal and joined him on the opposite side of the table, he nibbled a strip. 

“It’s not pig is it?” he groused.

Hannibal was apparently pleased with Will’s breakfast. He scooted forward and peeled back the crisp trout scales. The bite he took was heeping. 

“If it looks like a pig? Tastes like a pig?”

Will glared at Hannibal unsatisfied. Eventually, Hannibal would trust him. Or Will would end up drowned or eaten anyway. It was a shame that even when the fish bites, it could still get away. Will wondered what that meant for him.

* * *

_Rib Roast with Prosciutto and Figs (serves 8):_

  * _2 tbsp 3rd Press olive oil_
  * _4 garlic Cloves, minced_
  * _1 tbsp Salt_
  * _1 tbsp Rosemary, roughly chopped_
  * _2 tsp Black pepper, ground_
  * _1 Standing rib roast_
  * _Prosciutto_
  * _15 Figs, halved_
  * _8 Shallots, peeled_
  * _½ tbsp Vinegar_
  * _½ tbsp Red wine_
  * _2 tbsp Honey_



  1. _Preheat the oven to 230° C and arrange a rack in the lower third._
  2. Combine 1 tbsp of the oil, salt, rosemary, 2 tsp pepper, and all garlic in a bowl and mix. Rub the mixture all over the roast and set aside at room temperature for 1 hour.
  3. Overlap the prosciutto on the meaty side of the roast and secure in place with string, tie the roast by running the string parallel to the bones. Arrange the roast in a large roasting rack, bone side down. Roast until the meat is nicely browned, about 25 minutes.
  4. Put the figs and shallots in a bowl and add the remaining oil, vinegar (and wine) and honey.
  5. Season well with salt and pepper, to taste, and toss to coat.
  6. Add the mixture to the roasting pan, reduce the oven temperature to 180° C, and roast. Baste the vegetables occasionally, until the internal temperature registers 46 to 49° C.
  7. Remove the roast. Transfer it to a cutting board.
  8. Cover it tightly with aluminum foil and allow the meat to rest.
  9. Remove kitchen string, carve, and transfer to a serving platter.
  10. Serve with the figs and onions.




	5. MEDIUM

#  **Medium**

Wolf Trap, Virginia was gorgeous in every season, but during spring, Will could do without the mud. In the morning, when he let his dogs out, they’d return minutes later covered in it. Will couldn’t be mad at them. They were so happy. He’d sip his coffee on the porch and watch them roll around in the sodden grass.

The weather report said it was going to be unseasonably hot today. Maybe the mud would dry up, but Will figured that if there was mud anywhere, his dogs would find it.

It was a good day to roll out the smoker. He could smoke the salmon he caught and froze last summer. Then there was the tri-tip from his neighbor. His mouth watered thinking about it. Now excited for the day, Will went back inside to get dressed, his dogs pouring in past the screen door after him.

The first step was to season the tri-tip. He couldn’t let his Louisiana heritage down and put the cut in without seasoning. He imagined all his relatives rolling in their swamp graves. He hadn’t inherited much, but one thing he did receive was a damn good dry rub recipe. It was never written down because the Grahams made it with their feelings, an elaborate guesstimation. 

The plastic zip lock bag containing the premade blend was labeled in red sharpie but was running low. He eyed it over, dabbed a licked finger in, and tasted. When he reblended the mixture, he added more garlic powder and oregano than before. It tasted better. When he removed the tri-tip from the fridge, it was cold to his fingertips. The sensation of kneading the seasoning into the meat’s grain jolted him back into the morgue. 

He never touched the bodies if he could help it. When he imagined killing these people for Jack’s investigations, he never wanted to cement the experience with any more of his senses. His mind was already too skilled at generating the appropriate sensations of a person dying in his hands, the heat of their blood, their twitching limbs, and his own excited heartbeat. If he could starve his memory of sensation, like touching this cold muscle now, his mind wouldn’t have such a rich library to pull from when he reconstructed cruel deaths.

If Hannibal was here he would have said something like, “But what kind of life would a person live devoid of physical sensation? Don’t deny your imagination, Will. The fault isn’t your mind but what you choose to do with it.”

“The righteous decision is always a sacrificial one,” Will would scoff.

“Who made you the martyr? All decisions are sacrificial to the choice you didn’t make.”

Will made himself the martyr, always better him than someone else. He brought himself back to the task at hand. The tri-tip was looking lovely, dressed in spices, and warming under his messaging fingers. He put it on the top shelf of the cabinet to keep the dogs from begging.

Late into the afternoon, when the salmon was finished and the tri-tip took its turn in the fire, Will sat in a lawn chair reading a book. The smoker puffed its white cloud up over the treetops. The juices had begun to sizzle just as a familiar car crawled up the drive. 

“I didn’t expect you.” Will didn’t move from his seat, but his hoard of dogs ran over. 

They knew better than to jump whether it was Hannibal or anyone else. Will wondered how Hannibal would murder him if one of the dogs got his suit muddy. The list of Will’s transgressions was likely growing daily, and Will was sure his future death was becoming more and more embellished.

“I called,” Hannibal graced across the green grass, “You didn’t pick up.” 

He ruffled the nearest dog’s head, stared curiously at the smoker. His chest expanded noticeably as he took a large inhale. The meat was reaching a point where it smelled incredible. 

“Expecting company?” Hannibal said.

“No, but you’re overstepping, doctor.” 

Hannibal pouted at Will’s sharpness, and suddenly Will felt bad for snapping at him. He hadn’t been near the phone all day, which meant there was a pleasant voicemail waiting on the machine. Will softened his voice. 

“To what do I owe this visit?”

“I’ve brought you this. It wouldn’t have been helpful over the phone.” Hannibal drew a book from under his arm and passed it to Will. The title read The Forge and the Crucible.

“A book on alchemy?” At first, Will was excited but he swiftly became annoyed. 

Hannibal always knew more than he let on. Always shared gifts that fell short of an actual answer. It gave him the impression he was being actively played with.

“If your killer cares about everlasting life and knowledge lost, then begin at The Magnum Opus.” Hannibal’s attention was riveted to Will’s casual flipping through the book. 

Will settled on a picture of a man and a woman in circles and triangles being measured, the squared circle. It was labeled ‘the philosopher’s stone’. When he glanced back up at Hannibal, the man was smiling at him. Will wasn’t able to stay mad despite being teased with a carrot on a string. Hannibal drove all the way out here after all, and Will rarely received company. 

“Would you like a drink?” 

Hannibal agreed amiably and followed Will into the house. 

“I’m not sure I have anything you’ll want.” Regardless Will went through the motions of looking in his fridge, unable to imagine Hannibal drinking a light beer. Arms wrapped around his waist and a sharp chin propped up on his shoulder. 

“Mm I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hannibal murmured. 

Will felt Hannibal’s breath on his neck, a nose nuzzle, and the gust of an inhale.

“I know what you’re going to say. I smell smoked,” Will chuckled.

“And spiced. Pleasantly oak-y.” Hannibal dabbed the tip of his tongue to Will’s neck. “Very tempting.” 

He drew Will to him for a kiss.

Will never understood entirely why he could still relax around Hannibal. Why his touch wouldn’t make him shiver in fear. He was normally so instinctual too, prone to flight response over fight, but Hannibal was able to slip past his carefully built walls with frightening ease. 

There were times when Will begged himself to recall the men and women Hannibal had devoured because this supremely well-mannered, absolutely terrifying man was able to wipe his memory clean with a kiss. It was all fake. Hannibal, if eroded down to basics, was a masterclass pretender. Will held forcefully onto this thought as he led Hannibal to his bed.

The bed’s edge met Hannibal’s calves as Will carefully unbuttoned his suit piece-by-piece. First, the jacket, which Hannibal cast off over a chair, then the waistcoat, which dropped to the bed corner. Will was learning to be a masterclass pretender. It was simple when Hannibal was around. A sign that Will’s unique abilities were sensing Hannibal’s own motivations. 

Before he was imprisoned, Will was an honest man, or at least he thought so, but now he was becoming more and more dishonest. He could practically dress up in a lie like a suit, walk among his friends without them noticing. It hurt him to do this. 

First, because his friends didn’t know him well enough to notice, and second because he berated himself mentally for days anytime he thought otherwise. The guilt of altering himself stung. 

He pressed further into Hannibal’s open mouth with his own, rushed through his shirt buttons to get his fingers on his skin.

Always more patient, Hannibal took his time undressing Will. When each button was freed, he folded the shirt open, before sitting on the edge of the bed to begin on Will’s belt. Will knocked his hands away and pushed him back to fall over him. Hannibal’s hands were undeterred though and continued to work the belt free while the kiss continued. Will shrugged out of his shirt hurriedly, threw his hands down to Hannibal’s belt as if desperate to mimic him. 

The kiss roughened as Hannibal fisted into Will’s hair. Will growled, drunk on contact from hands and tongue. 

Sometimes, when Will got hard he swore he could feel his blood change course away from his flighty brain and down to his groin through thickening capillaries. The pulsing highway of his hormones redirected every sane thought in his head into rutting sensational desires. 

In his lightheaded state, he blindly slipped past Hannibal’s fly for confirmation that he wasn’t alone in his arousal. As his fingers found and curled over what he hoped to find, a mirrored erection, Hannibal made a coaxing sound into Will’s mouth. When Will squeezed him harder, the sound became a moan. He reveled in it, tried to stroke out more like he was chasing a high.

They broke again to hastily remove their shoes, even Hannibal, who seemingly lost his considered patience with his sartorial decisions and heel-toed them off before pulling Will back in. Free of the last reason to separate, they struggled out of their pants, forgotten and tangled.

Hannibal was already below Will and hadn’t shown an interest in fighting to be on top. He lounged back, lazily dragging wet kisses out of Will, tugging periodically from Will’s balls to tip. It was driving Will mad.

Will was already overwhelmed with the back and forth in his head about his desires. They were clouding his reasoning. Instead, he should play coy with Hannibal, rather than succumbing. Yet each lazy pull yanked the heavy curtain further over his rationality. It felt good. It felt right. 

He wanted to meld with his tormentor, punish his teasing in the most diabolical ways. He huffed-out air, aggravated and glared at Hannibal, who responded slyly with an especially long drag on his shaft.

Will dipped an exploratory finger between Hannibal’s ass cheeks, and his soft pads met an obstruction. He touched the object in question, an oblong flare, metal, warm with body heat. 

“Are you— did you—?” 

“Yes. The entire drive.” Hannibal rocked across his positioned hand, which must’ve passed a rolling pleasure through the plug. He sighed decadently and in a whisper said, “Do you think it’s time it came out?”

Will’s rational mind returned but without the previous anxieties. He cupped Hannibal’s face to run his thumb over a sharp cheek. It was strange that someone he despised so much was able to alter his mind so swiftly. 

Over the course of Will’s life, he learned that empathy was a curse more than a gift. It left him bloody. Only when he was with Hannibal did the wound ever heal, even for a moment. It was a cruel fate that his personified salve was a vile decapitator. Still, his desire hadn’t abated, quite the opposite. 

“It’s what you deserve.” Will pinched the flared edges of the butt plug and twisted. 

Hannibal’s penetrating eyes fluttered closed. When he twisted again, a small wrinkle appeared between Hannibal’s brows. And again, Hannibal grit his teeth.

“Will, please,” he rasped quietly.

The request pulled Will like a snapped tether. He delicately tugged it out. At its widest, Will felt Hannibal shudder. With the plug out, Will slid his finger into its vacancy and found he could easily place three. Inside, Hannibal was open and slick, ready. Will was drowning in desire, if he opened his mouth he expected to gurgle for breath. 

For being pliant under his fingers, Hannibal’s ass was more resistant to his penetrating cock. He worked it in further, relaxing the tight tissue until he settled fully.

Hannibal locked his legs around Will’s waist to manage his thrusts. The late afternoon sun threw columns of light across their bodies. A beam curled across Hannibal’s side and even while Will’s senses were raging, he touched the spot with a shivering reverence. Then he slid his hand further down to attend to Hannibal's erection.

When Will gripped him, Hannibal jerked. Drugged, Will established a sloppy rhythm between his hips and hand. As he blinked slowly, in the red darkness behind his lids, he became Hannibal lying back on the sun-warmed bed. In this space, he was both Hannibal and the husk of Will Graham staggering into annihilation. 

Hannibal was exalted, biting off small pants and groans. He visibly struggled to keep focused. His eyes would fog for longer and longer moments at a time before he’d blink them razor-sharp again. The intervals were lengthening as he entwined his fingers in Will’s hair to forcefully pull his mouth down to his. 

The rough kiss unraveled what remained of Will. He arched his spine and whined, spilling into Hannibal’s channel. He hovered in orgasmic stupor for a few gasps of air before realizing that Hannibal hadn’t cum. Although he was far from upset about it. He was smugly stroking himself.

However, Will was wired. He slid to the floor, dragged Hannibal’s knees to him, pressed his legs open, and cleaned out Hannibal’s hole. Then, mouth glistening with his own cum, Will began to suck Hannibal off. He was messy, gulping, feeding delightedly on Hannibal’s throbbing cock.

Hannibal’s response was immediate. He made a strangled sound, arched up, and filled Will’s mouth with cum. Will swallowed what he could before crouching back on his heels, ragged for air. He stared at the man in his bed, who was collapsed and breathing heavily. 

Hannibal stared back. 

To Will, the look read as ‘confused’ but Hannibal was gifted with the ability to live his life free of confusion. He shook off the idea wearily before crawling back up on the bed. He sprawled out next to Hannibal, exhausted and floaty. The sun blanketed him for a moment before Hannibal rolled over to join him.

Will could kill Hannibal right now. He could go to the kitchen, get a knife, and have Hannibal bleed out on his sheets. But no, Will made a deal with Jack. Will had to prove Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper, but the line between justice and murder was fading. If he hacked Hannibal to pieces in his bed, Will would be a murderer, no better than Hannibal. Instead, Will placed a hand on his almost victims lower back to hold him closer.

They might have napped. Will lost track of time, wrapped in Hannibal’s arms. At some point, his thoughts crawled back, and he snapped alert.

“Fuck.” He threw himself out of bed, back into his pants, and out the door.

The smoker was still puffing diligently, but the shadows it cast were long. Will cracked the lid, and heat curled out at him in waves. He pulled the meat out to stab a thermometer in. The little indicator blinked as it calculated.

“It certainly smells good.” Hannibal was fusing with a cuff link as he descended down the porch steps with the herd of dogs.

The thermometer beeped. 

“I overcooked it,” Will muttered dejectedly.

“Hmm. That’s still edible.” Hannibal peered at the temperature.

Will looked at the setting sun and sighed. 

“At least it’s late enough to drink bourbon without feeling like a drunk.” 

He carried the steaming cut inside, his dogs and Hannibal at his heels.

* * *

_Smoked Tri-Tip (serves 6):_

  * _Prime Beef Tri-Tip, trimmed_
  * _4 Oak Wood Chunks_
  * _Butter_
  * _Coarse salt_



  * _Will’s dry rub: salt, black pepper, chili powder, cayenne, garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, cumin, oregano, thyme_



  1. _Season all sides of the tri-tip with the rub. Let the seasoned meat sit out for an hour to temper._
  2. Set up your smoker for indirect cooking and bring the temperature to 108 to 120° C.
  3. Place in the tri-tip in the smoker furthest away from the heat.
  4. Smoke until the tri-tip's internal temperature is about 43° to 46° C.
  5. Remove it from the smoker and place on a baking sheet with a wire cooling rack. Let it sit for up to an hour.
  6. Brush butter on all sides of the tri-tip. Sear on a grill.
  7. Let it rest before carving and slicing.
  8. Sprinkle with coarse salt.




	6. MEDIUM-WELL

#  **Medium-Well**

Will approached the third petrified body careful not to stomp the daffodils. Some of them were crushed in boot prints around the crime scene. Already sinking into the killer’s mindset, Will was disgusted by the attending agents’ lack of compassion. 

He connected his eyes with the stone ones of the dead.

The sun rose and sank in an instant as Will descended further into the killer’s mind. 

_The corpse became a living man once again. His veins pulsed blue under his aging skin. He was strong despite his age and comfortable with his wrinkles. There was a grace in his movements. He was handsome, but my interest wasn’t sexual. I had a catalog of regulars that I selected from, and this man fit my needs perfectly. He was excited to meet me when I picked him up from the airport._

_When I brought him back to my workshop, I drugged him with a homemade mixture of Gelsemium. It took an hour to induce paralysis. We talked about nothing until his face became unresponsive. He thought he was having a stroke. I convinced him I’d call the hospital, but I didn’t. I went outside and had a cigarette. When I got back, only his flashing eyes proved he was conscious._

_I needed one last ingredient from him. I moved him to the metal table and undressed him stiffly like a mannequin. I set up the catheter, and while I waited for him to pee, I sharpened my knife._

_It didn’t take long for someone to pee when they are paralyzed, naked, and terrified. In the collection beaker, I stirred in distilled water and set it aside. In a few days, the purified materials would float to the beaker’s surface as an oil. I’d collect this oil and dry it into a fine white powder. The powder could be shaped with water into a stone. I won’t use all the powder to make the stone. Some of it I’d mix into my water to purify myself. But this process was only beginning, and the man on the table was ready for me now._

_I began to remove his skin. I slipped the blade between his epidermis and muscle to remove the connective tissue. Then all that was needed was a firm tug to slowly shuck it off. There were no screams, but he did cry. They all cried. I bathed the raw muscles with a numbing solution. I hoped it helped a little. He was doing me a huge service dying like this._

_Once the man was peeled, I took a break and walked to the leather facility. The skin needed to be processed._

_Already exhaustion was crowding my eyes. It would be many more days, but the next step was the most important. I set the body into the positioning armature. It continued to bleed. At some point, the bleeding would stop. It was unimportant when._

_Change was unavoidable even in immortality. To die, was to be out of control. To continue living was the final transformation. Eternal life was the pursuit every alchemist wanted to perfect, and like every grasp for power, sacrifices were needed. This took rigorous hours of work. I took breaks when I needed to. I slept in a chair while I perfected the necessary pose. When it was done, I washed the body again. I didn’t want it to attract flies._

_I immediately had to begin the mold making process. I coated the cleansed body with plaster and fiberglass. It took hours for each subsequent layer to harden. When the aperture could be removed, the leftover holes were filled. Finally, the mold was moved into the fire and the insides were burned out. It smelled like a barbeque so I had to do it late at night. This suited me fine. I let the plaster cool for several days while I prepared the resin and aggregate._

_When the cast was filled and dried, weeks later, I cracked the finished artifact out with chisels and hammers. The once soft, living body was transformed into immortal stone. The ascended human held his palms cupped forward before his stomach. His handsome face was at peace. I washed the body’s new armored skin with acids to remove all the impurities._

_In the dead of night, I carried the masterpiece out on an engine crane into my paneled van. I had a long drive into another state._

“This is my design.”

Will blinked violently, rubbed his eyes clear. He was back in the clearing filled with daffodils and an ascended man. The man stood on a block of yellow wood. The peace in his eyes was a lie. Like the others, he had died scared and in pain. At his feet was the white stone. 

The white stone was just one small step in creating the red stone, the Magnum Opus, the Great Work. He crouched down to view it fully. This element wasn’t put back into the body, because it was the one element living bodies shed. It was a symbol of filth made pure.

The victim really was beautiful like this. The killer was exceptional at his work. Will shook the idea off. His skill inhabiting others left him tainted.

“There will be one more body after this and then the killer will likely commit suicide. If you want to catch him, Jack, there can’t be a fourth body.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh?!”

“The fourth body will be a child and it will be the _rubedo_ , the red phase. Linda Pitcoft isn’t holding a crown above her. She’s holding a child. Once the baby is added, the equation will be finished and the killer will be granted immortality. He just needs to die first. He needs to make his final transmutation.”

When he stood, Hannibal was staring at him with a bemused expression.

Jack wasn’t bemused. He was passionately angry. 

“Tell me how to catch him, Will!” Jack roared.

Sometimes Jack’s sternness struck Will as if the man thought he could bend reality with demands. Will rubbed his temples.

“He’s somewhere warm. He’s a craftsman, a handyman. He’s…” Will looked far off, licked his lips.

Jack was painfully expectant. Hannibal was too.

But Will wasn’t able to complete the sentence. He stared dumbly at the man’s placid face and imagined him crying.

He went home alone. At some point tomorrow, he expected a morgue report from Jimmy and Brian, but at the moment, two ibuprofen, a drink, and some personal time with his dogs was all he wanted. Maybe he would cook a nice meal too.

It was after dark when Alana visited. The night temperature had dropped, and when Will greeted her on the porch her breaths were visible in the porch light. The dogs were happy to see her. They licked her palms whenever she drew away from petting them. 

Alana, at some point during his arrest, had amputated their friendship. Hannibal said as much. Alana believed Will was a serial killer and struggled to come to terms with it. Alana dealt with the murder allegations in the same way someone grieves a friend’s sudden death. Now that Will was out of prison, Alana treated him like the walking dead. She was unable to see the Will of the present, only a haunting phantom of the past.

After Will resumed his therapy with Hannibal, she snapped out of it. Her immediate concern about Hannibal and Will’s relationship was irritating, like an absent mother that only scolds her children. Whereas before, she and Will were kind of friends, perhaps almost lovers, the ship had sunk as soon as he was imprisoned. 

Alana was quick to separate herself from Will to side with Hannibal instead. This stung, but it was a pattern that followed Will around since he was young. He had a disposition that was untrustworthy. She wasn’t the first friend he’d lost to circumstances outside of his control.

It was noble she was making an effort. If anything Alana was noble. However, it was a shame that this fresh interest came from Will’s return to Hannibal and not because she missed their own relationship. Other than his dogs, he wondered. She seemed to like his dogs quite a bit. At least Will had that going for him. Finding a good dog sitter was always nerve-wracking given how much he traveled.

Will always seemed to be half-dressed whenever Alana dropped by. He crossed his arms self-consciously. At least he was wearing sweatpants this time. 

“Is this about the killer? Or Hannibal? Or Freddie? Or my own mental state?”

“It’s about dinner.” Alana held up a bottle of wine. She stepped across the threshold. “But maybe all of that too. We never really got back on the same footing after…”

“After I was wrongly accused and incarcerated,” Will’s voice was flat. 

Alana frowned at Will. If Will never saw that look directed at him again, it would be too soon. He hated her constant concern. 

“After you were acquitted and released,” Alana corrected him, “I’m trying here Will. Are you interested in trying back?”

Will bowed his head as he shut the door. He could at least see where this went. 

“Welcome then. You’re lucky today I’m actually cooking short ribs.”

“I was wondering what that smell was.” She was already in the kitchen scratching through a drawer for the bottle opener. “Are the short ribs from Hannibal?” 

She pulled the cork and poured. Will nodded while accepting the wine glass Alana held out to him.

“So between just you and me, what’s going on with you two?” Alana said conversationally.

Will had the expectation that Alana wouldn’t start on this topic so fast, but Alana prided herself on getting to the core of an issue first. She thought it cleared the air. However, Will soured. 

“From Hannibal?” He raised the wine glass to her in question. 

Alana frowned again. Will read it as a confirmation.

“What’s between us?” He swirled his glass. “Hannibal’s weaving a web and we’re both in it. If I had a choice, I’d rather know the spider. It’ll still eat us but at least I won’t be surprised. However, you might be.”

“You need a different therapist, Will. Hannibal encourages mental digging, not recovering from trauma. It doesn’t help that he triggers your paranoia.” The frown was Alana’s only facial expression these days.

“I didn’t have paranoia until Hannibal, but I was always traumatized. Why’d you connect us then? Back when Jack first approached me.”

“I thought you needed a confidant.” Alana leaned against the kitchen door and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Then I got what you thought I needed. He holds all the secrets, all the cards, and that includes mine. Is that what he does for you too?” Will didn’t mean to growl.

Alana gulped her wine. She glared once the glass lowered. 

“Why do I always get the feeling that you’re a jealous jilted lover? We were never in a relationship, Will. I can be with whoever I want.”

“Sounds serious,” Will bit out. He was pleased he had at least chased away Alana’s concern. He appreciated anger more these days. Anger was always honest.

This conversation wasn’t clearing the air, instead, it was lighting the room on fire and letting it fill with black smoke. She set her glass down, folded her arms. 

“It could be.”

Will didn’t want to burn the house down. He rubbed his face and whined. 

“Alana, please, as his _confidant_ , you should trust me when I say, don’t fall in love with him. He won’t return it. He won’t feel it. He only uses strong emotions as a weapon to use against you. He’ll wrap your love around your throat and then choke you to death with it.” Will was almost begging.

Will thought about Hannibal’s harsh, false face. If he could return to a time where he trusted the man, as Alana now did, he would in an instant. He easily understood why Alana was resistant to believe he was anything but an open, kind, and brilliant man because the alternative meant she was a pawn instead of an equal. But to believe one was equal to Hannibal, or at least, caught his attention, was a beautiful dream. Will happily lived that dream, for a time believed it fully, until it became a nightmare. His friendship with Hannibal was the tool Hannibal used to frame Will for murder.

He wanted Alana to wake up before Hannibal hurt her like that, but even then, she might still want to return to dreaming. Will experienced that as well. He was footsteps away from returning to this dream. Hannibal made it difficult to know what was real.

“I never said I loved him.” She picked her glass back up and the metaphorical fire in the room was extinguished. “What I’m saying is, I could.”

Will almost responded, ‘Part of his game is making people love him.’ 

Instead, he said, “I need to check the ribs.” 

He scooted past Alana towards the oven, careful not to touch her. There had been a time where he always wanted to touch her, now the idea turned his stomach.

He’d extinguished Alana’s anger, but what replaced the threat of fire was an unfriendly chill. While the atmosphere of the house was now frosty, the inside of the oven was roiling heat. A cloud of hair-curling warmth billowed out along with the pleasant scent of stewed vegetables and meat. Will was thankful there was something warm still in the house, since his friendship with Alana had cooled to the point of being pronounced dead. Ribs well on their way to done, he began slicing potatoes. 

Alana’s frown had reappeared. She clutched her wine glass like she clutched her torso. Even she was feeling the conversational chill.

“We can’t be friends anymore can we?”

“I don’t think so.” Will didn’t look up. The knife moving through the potatoes was more of a threat to his livelihood. 

She had the decency to sigh. She put her glass back down. 

“That’s a shame. Keep the bottle of wine. Enjoy your dinner.” She showed herself out.

Will agreed it was a shame, but he knew who to blame, Hannibal. He ate his dinner in the company of his dogs and the bottle of wine.

* * *

_Braised Short Ribs (serves 4):_

  * _8 Beef Short Ribs_
  * _Salt to taste_
  * _Black pepper to taste_
  * _1/4 cup Flour_
  * _Bacon, Diced_
  * _2 tbsp Olive Oil_
  * _1 Onion, Diced_
  * _3 Carrots, Diced_
  * _2 Shallots, Minced_
  * _2 cloves Garlic, Minced_
  * _2 cups Dark Beer_
  * _2 cups Beef Broth_
  * _Fresh Thyme_
  * _Fresh Rosemary_



  1. _Preheat oven to 350° F._
  2. Salt and pepper ribs then dredge in flour.
  3. Cook bacon until crispy. Don’t drain off grease. Set aside.
  4. Add oil to the pan with the bacon grease. Sear ribs on all sides. Set aside.
  5. Add onions, carrots, garlic, and shallots to pan and cook. Pour in beer and scrape the bottom of the pan. Bring to a boil.
  6. Add broth, salt and black pepper. Taste and add more salt if needed. Submerge ribs in the liquid. Add thyme and rosemary sprigs.
  7. Put on the lid and place into the oven. Cook for 2 hours, then reduce heat to 325 and cook for an additional 30 to 45 minutes. Ribs should be fork-tender and falling off the bone. Remove pan from oven and allow it to sit for at least 20 minutes, lid on, before serving. Skim off fat.
  8. Serve.




	7. WELL-DONE

#  **Well-Done**

The latest victim was named Keith Boyton. He was the same age as the previous victims and lived alone. He was also independently wealthy. He lived in New York City with his three dobermans and an impressive shoe collection. When Jack explored his residence, he made sure to photograph the shelved, multi-tiered closet of shoes. All were in black or brown leather of various styles. When appraised, one pair came in as high as fifteen thousand dollars. 

Upon seeing the photographs, Will hallucinated that each leather sole became a person. They got up off the shelves, alive but skinless, to plead with Will. Their hands were outstretched like Keith’s, begging for his help. Their peeled faces contorted with tears and wide-eyed, unable to blink without lids. At the back of the closet, a baby wailed. 

Will pushed through the bodies frantically moving in the direction of the sound, but he couldn’t get closer. The closet stretched longer and longer as the pitch of the baby’s cries grew and grew. The bodies pressed in around him. He was panicking, slipping on their slick, bleeding limbs as he rushed forward. When he broke through, at last, the baby had stopped crying.

Instead, there was a burning white light. Will shielded his eyes to squint at it. The light formed into two beating wings, a long tail, and the head of an eagle. Underneath its molten talons was the child, whose plucked eyes trailed from the bird’s beak.

Will jerked awake, sticky with sweat and breathing hard. Through the windows, it was still night. Will tried to reach for a glass of water on his nightstand, but his hand didn’t move. In fact, he was unable to move anything. Beyond the edge of his bed, in place of his dogs and furniture, stretched a void. A wheeling sound shook the walls like thunder, and from the darkness stepped a massive elk. The elk’s black eyes stared at him and he could only stare back, paralyzed.

He woke up again with the sun on his face. His bed sheets clung to his body, soaked through. It was late in the morning. His dogs, aware that he was now awake, whined to be let out. All except Winston, who jumped up on the bed and lapped Will’s shaken face. 

Will rustled Winston’s fur around his neck. He didn’t have the heart to command him off the bed. It was past his morning alarm anyway. Drowsily, he let the dogs out before shuffling to the kitchen to make coffee, but the shadow elk hadn’t left after the night terror. Will couldn’t see it, but he felt the sharp huffs of the creature’s breath raising the hair on his neck.

The coffee cleared his head, but the beast hovered. This wasn’t the first time he was stalked all day by his demons. He opened the fridge. The beef tongue and beef liver were still packaged in butcher paper. He chopped them in bite-sized chunks and scraped them from the cutting board into the cast iron primed with butter. The smell of butter was an extra treat. Even when he was young he liked it. There were some good memories associated with the browning of butter. It softened memories in the same way it softened in a dish on the counter or on a piece of slightly-burnt toast. 

The tongue and liver sputtered in their own juices until the chunks had none left to secrete. When Will plucked at them with a bare thumb and index, they were soft but completely cooked. He added the pieces to a pot of boiled rice along with vegetables. The mixture stewed. This was the only way he liked feeding his dogs. The control of knowing exactly what they ate instead of the mystery ingredients in store-bought pellets put Will at ease. After he let them back in they hovered at his feet panting patiently. Will ran each pup through simple drills and rewarded the commands with smoked salmon. The stag haunted him through all of this.

Dog food cooked and cooling, Will stepped into the shower. Water moved over him in rivets. Warmth surrounded him. The repetition of the drops pattering at his back and neck soothed him. He was no stranger to the disassociation that preceded his fugue states. Hannibal warned him of the signs. 

One of those symptoms was constructing sense patterns. The shower hadn’t done this to him before, but with the stag in the room, anything was possible. Time was slowing down. The water traveling in streams down his body became throbbing clear veins separating out into wiggling drops. They shimmered sickly like he was showering in a strobe light. He distantly noticed his head hurt.

But he was no longer in the shower. The thrum of a bullroarer howled. In front of him, was an industrial chimney spouting flames from its top like a volcano. The elk dug at the ground with his hoof and huffed at the chimney’s cracking vault door. Will expected the dead to stampede out of the furnace, a continuation of his dream earlier, but instead, a pair of antlers twisted out, pitch-black like burnt bone. Long-fingered hands curled around the door’s edge, which pulled the creature forward from the fire until a horned man emerged fully on two spindly legs.

The elk dug the ground again and bayed in warning, but the wendigo approached in a crouch. Will was unable to move. Half his mind recognized that he was having an episode. 

That half-remembered the voice of Hannibal, “You can either control the vision or you can ride it out, see where it goes. It might show you something you need to see. If you let it go too long, you run the risk of falling ever deeper into the world you’ve created and in that world, you could cerebrally suffer.” Hannibal had said this once while cutting sweet potatoes into roses in his kitchen. It was the same night that Will grabbed a knife from its holder on the counter and flashed it at Hannibal’s belly. 

The other half of his mind was trapped watching his shadow elk threaten the approaching wendigo. The elk lowered it’s crown of antlers, grinding and snapping its incisors. The bullroarer droned on as the beast from the furnace lowered its own antlers, dragged its hands through the dirt, leaving long claw marks in the clay. 

In the kitchen with the knife, Will had gripped the metal handle of the carving knife and unsheathed it from the counter block without any provocation. Hannibal was speaking about the inconceivability of one own’s death. Will was inspired to have Hannibal conceive of his own when Will brought the knife’s edge to Hannibal’s abdomen. He let it rest there, knuckles white, teeth snarling. He wanted to show Hannibal that the rage was still there even while he drank wine in his kitchen waiting for dinner and that Hannibal should consider his own fragile mortality. Hannibal reached out and his worn hand covered the knife handle and Will’s own. 

“If you are planning to kill someone, do it while death is still inconceivable to them. Otherwise, you’ll have to contend with the animal brain, a more reckless and dangerous foe.”

Back at the chimney, the two beasts charged at each other. Their antlers locked. From crown to brow, their tines sparked as they entangled. Together, they struggled into the dry baked earth. The vision’s sick thrum twisted into the sound of two hearts webbed with throbbing veins. The animals dueled before the flaming chimney and their shadows grew long in the blaze. 

Hannibal’s kitchen was shrouded in pulsing darkness, red crawled in from the edges. Will grabbed the back of Hannibal’s neck and attempted to force him onto the blade still leveled at his stomach. “Does this conjure your animal brain, Doctor Lecter?”

“Is this meant to bring it out of me?” Hannibal moved forward on his own volition and brushed Will’s lips with his own. His hand still gripped the cutlery handle, but loosely, not interested in forcing Will’s threat away. “Do you crave a more reckless and dangerous foe?” He whispered against him. 

Will’s heart was the heart of the elk, toiling against the wendigo. He was perpetually interlocked in a victoryless battle. His antlers ached to the bone. Part of him wished the beast he was facing would crack the growths off his head and spear him into the ground. He imagined the ink-thick blood gurgling out of his wounds.

The night of sweet potato roses was their sexual consummation. Will had cast the lure, and the fish bit down. Hannibal used very little guiding force to place Will down over the counter, across the cutting board, like an executioner setting up a prisoner for a beheading. Will half expected Hannibal to grasp the butcher knife from its block and butcher him for market. 

The wendigo was winning. Using its hands to grapple the opposing antlers, it had forced the elk’s front knees down. 

Hannibal didn’t grab for a knife, instead, he touched Will through his pants. Aroused panic swept through Will, a similar terror captured in the eye of an expiring deer or of an elk hauled to the ground by a wendigo. 

Both halves of Will’s mind panted like an animal.

“Of course,” Hannibal crowded over Will, “calling any part of the human brain the animal brain is without foundation. A human is an animal with the same needs and considerations as any other. However, the need for separation from nature is quintessentially human. So you see, Will.” During his observation, Hannibal had loosened both their pants. “This is my animal brain, whether panicked or aroused.” And it was apparent he was aroused. “Or while addressing humanity’s quest to rid itself of its instincts. Is this what you wanted?” 

The wrestling animals were more straightforward in their aggression. The dream was swelling with a frenzied need. Will, the elk, the erupting chimney, bled together twitching hot. The other, the wendigo, the cannibal hunger, gripped its meat, its rod, prideful and grotesque, and stabbed it’s antlers deep into Will almost from rib to spine. The rending pain was total. Gasping pleasure radiated out of Will’s elk wounds, finally pleased the struggle was decided and his exhaustion would soon end.

The crispness of Hannibal’s kitchen, sharp lines, and dark wood, the warm pressing of skin, was a mirror world to the world of two demon animals fighting. While his spearing in the kitchen hurt less than being run through with an antler, the gasping pleasure was the same. The thrumming of the vision didn’t drown out Will’s pleading whimpers as Hannibal fucked him from behind. One hand fisted in Will’s hair to hold him down and the other on his hip. 

Will realized that eventually, Hannibal was going to kill him, that he was going to die. Even in the heights of ecstasy, he became aware of his own fragility. Even death had a gentle hand while guiding someone onto a knife, why not a cock. Will wanted to waste away on it. This present moment stretched out to infinite.

The vision flipped like a coin. On one side was the throbbing, dirty, blood-red forest filled with fire and depravity. And on the other, a practically sterile, white-light, delicate-fingered kitchen; anal served on a butcher block, fresh out of the wax paper. The vision, and Will’s mind, spun catastrophically.

Will slammed back into his body. He realized the shower water was now frigid. He was sprawled in the shower well, gasping and wet like so many fish he’d pulled from a stream. Cum washed off his pruney fingers. He felt rung out, hollow. He hit off the faucet and curled into himself as his shattered heart slowly recovered to its normal frantic pace.

Once he toweled off, he called Jack Crawford. His teeth were still chattering from cold when Jack picked up. “Jack! He’s using an industrial chimney to burn the molds out. It’s an old one.”

“Helpful but not needed. We found the tanning facility. Some scheduled visitors have been no shows for the last few months. You can guess who was in the books but never showed, our victims. I’m sending an extraction team now.” Then the receiver clicked. Will remained awkwardly standing in his living room until the phone sounded the dial tone. At the time, he thought that was the case’s conclusion.

However, hours later Will was flown in on a cessna to Malvern, Arkansas. 

* * *

_Homemade Dog Food (serves 4):_

  * _1 1/2 cups Brown rice_
  * _1 tbsp Butter_
  * _Beef Tongue and Beef Liver_
  * _3 cups Baby spinach, chopped_
  * _2 Carrots, shredded_
  * _1 Zucchini, shredded_
  * _1/2 cup Peas_



  1. _Cook rice. Set aside._
  2. Heat butter in a large stockpot over medium heat. Add beef tongue/beef liver and cook thoroughly.
  3. Stir in spinach, carrots, zucchini, peas, and brown rice until the spinach has wilted and the mixture is heated.
  4. Let cool completely.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm particularly interested with how this chapter read. Was it clear? Was it fun? If you have thoughts on how this is written please leave a comment! I'd appreciate it!


	8. OVERCOOKED

# Overcooked

Daniel Bisby’s home was a stout building with garage doors separate from the larger factory. Workbenches lined the space with saws, drills, and mills. There was a wall of tools. It was everything a person would expect of a man hired to maintain a property this size. 

From the ground floor, Will could barely see up into the second-story loft except for a ceiling hoist and the balcony banisters. The chains clanked in the draft from the open bay doors. An agent lay sprawled on the cement floor in a pool of his own liquified flesh. In some places, it still bubbled. The fluids trailed from his downturned face into a floor drain. 

Will reassembled the scene in his mind. He saw the beaker of acid dropped on the man’s face as if he were there witnessing it. The broken glass shattered around the agent as the liquid drenched him.

Now he lay dead on the floor, with two more agents shot dead in the stairwell up to the loft. The extraction had failed. Bisby was at large and with a child.

While downstairs was the workshop of a tradesman, the upstairs loft was what Will would expect of a modern-day alchemist; wide plank floors, a parlor stove, a wrinkled corner bed, and tables covered in glass chemistry equipment. In front of a floor-to-ceiling window, was the human armature Bisby used to position his paralyzed victims. Each of its hundred brass components shined in daylight. It was meticulously cared for, spotless and polished.

Next to it was a smaller version, simplified, but still precise for a smaller body, a baby’s body. Will crouched down next to it. He wanted to caress the wooden adjustment knobs. They were made to be touched, but Will remembered he couldn’t contaminate the evidence. There was palpable stress at the crime scene. The agents hovered around anxiously. Jack was practically navigating Will through the workshop like a ship captain expecting a storm.

He brought Will to Bisby’s desk and his wall of drawings. Half the loft was covered in white paper pinned to the lathe, each scribbled thick with inked ideas, drawings, or ramblings. It was unreadable without the guiding mind of the man that made them. The writing was illegible. 

The desk was covered similarly in a crazed sprawl of notes. One corner was bare. It’s blankness caught Will’s attention. Something that normally sat there, was missing. Will imagined a journal.

To give Will some space to work, Jack herded the agents downstairs. Without the bustling people photographing the scene and combing for evidence, the studio was light-filled and airy. If Will didn’t know what had happened here, on the metal table, in the aperture, he would have thought the space was a sanctuary for a beautiful mind.

Will sighed and split himself from his own identity into Daniel Bisby. The hours crawled back to the moment Bisby riffled through his desk. He was panicked, clutching the crying baby, grabbing for his journal. The agents had spooked him or something else. His car was missing, but he hadn’t been driving it. The killer had to still be here.

Will came back into himself. He sat down at the desk and spun around to face the wall of drawings. It was a sea of images, a whiteout of ideas, but Will had seen one of the symbols before. It was a squared circle with a man and a woman inside. He tore the drawing off the wall to examine it closer. 

Underneath the drawing was a hole cut in the lathe and at the back, was a light switch. Will leaned forward to examine it. He thought about throwing himself after Crawford, but every moment counted while the killer had a hostage. He flipped the switch and heard the sound of a winch. A ladder descended from the ceiling.

Will climbed into the attic nervously. He felt the sweat slick the butt of his drawn gun. The attic was pitch black. There were no windows, only the gray silhouette of a vent fan.

“Daniel Bisby! If you’re up here, this is the FBI! We have you surrounded!” 

The only response was the vent squeaking lazily.

Will lit a penlight and walked forward. The beam had little penetration in the dark and the dust. Towards the back, in the oppressive close heat, his foot hit a clamp light.

With the light’s illumination, Roger Vanhoight, Linda Pitcoft, and Keith Boyton appeared from the darkness. Past their sunken eyes and fragile lashes, was the shadow of taxidermy foam. With their skin on they looked like they were interrupted mid-ceremony. Roger knelt at Linda’s feet. Linda lifted her crowning hands. Keith held his out in front of him. They were nude. They appeared flushed. Will half expected them to start moving.

The skin was meticulously reassembled. The tableau nearly finished. A grim mirror image of the statues left in forest clearings.

The fan switched on and began to hum in earnest.

In front of his victims, Bisby lay dead. His head blasted open. The rifle’s trigger still entangled in his fingers. His blown cranium covered the painted incantations on the ground. A nude baby sat on his chest, covered with blood. Not an inch of skin was visible, but her blue eyes shone with a thrilled glee. Her plump fists pawed squelched brains onto her face and mouth. She cooed happily. 

Will lowered his gun. His pulse thrummed like a harp string, but his mind still functioned. Automatically, he collected the discarded blanket and bundled the baby girl up off the corpse. For a moment, he attempted to wipe the blood off but quickly gave up. He trundled back through the attic in a trance with the baby gurgling in his arms. 

After the initial shock, then the congratulations, and the flight back to Virginia, Will hung on Hannibal’s mantle like it was a life preserver in an angry sea. He had been blinking back disgusted tears all evening. Nothing tasted right in his dry mouth, so he swirled the bourbon in his tumbler more to watch the fire whirl around inside than to drink.

Hannibal was propped up behind him on his drawing desk.

“How did that make you feel?” 

“You killed him.” Will was sure of it now. 

It wasn’t Bisby that had thrown the acid on the agent or shot the two coming up the stairs. It was Hannibal, it had to be. The events played out again in his brain. Hannibal had arrived before Jack Crawford’s men. He’d alerted Bisby.

Hannibal alone would have had the ability to convince a man demanding immortality to die and have the inspiration to smear a child with entrails. He _alone_ had the audacity to feed a child brains before leaving her alone in a sealed attic. Bisby’s missing journal was never recovered, but Will suspected Hannibal had it hidden somewhere. Will turned to Hannibal now, his face backlit and menacing. 

“You were there and you killed him.”

Hannibal remained unflinchingly expressionless.

“Consider the nature of a phoenix for a moment.” 

Will growled angrily at this diversion, but he did. He thought about the phoenix in his dream, the bright light eating eyes from sockets. 

Hannibal continued. 

“It's a symbol for the constant cycle inherent in all living things. For a phoenix to live, it must first expire to ashes. Now the philosopher’s stone and the phoenix are often equated in old studies. The philosopher’s stone is to capture the moment of rebirth along the circle of life. Lock it in amber. Use it to renew life before death, or in this case, after death. I don’t think Daniel Bisby, if he had the capacity to speak from the grave, would consider himself dead. The child, his symbol for life everlasting, lives on, birthed anew. His phoenix has risen. Do you understand?”

Will regarded the embers glowing in the fire. In each leaping tongue of flame, he saw the dark stag pawing the ground outside the industrial chimney. The wail of a bullroarer became the cry of a newborn. Even while he resisted, Will, unfortunately, did understand.

“You trusted me to find the baby,” his voice quaked, “to save it.”

The long pause following his statement was filled with the fire’s crackling, shifting logs. But eventually, Hannibal did speak. And when he did, his voice was as soft as the snowfall in spring.

“I know you, Will. I know you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t make any of my recipes! I altered most, never cooked them, and don’t actually know what they taste like!
> 
> But do make these:  
> [Steak au poivre](https://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/steak-au-poivre-233549)  
> [Chicharrones](https://alldayidreamaboutfood.com/homemade-chicharrones-pork-rinds-low-carb-and-gluten-free)  
> [Prosciutto Standing Rib Roast with Figs](https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/aida-mollenkamp/prosciutto-standing-rib-roast-with-figs-recipe-1918334)  
> [Sous Vide Dry Aged Steaks](https://recipes.anovaculinary.com/recipe/amazing-dry-aged-steak)  
> [Patate al Forno](https://www.tavolartegusto.it/ricetta/patate-al-forno/)  
> [Fried Chickpeas](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/fried-chickpeas)  
> [Steak Tartare (and an amazing article)](https://schibboleth.com/beef-steak-tartare-sigmund-freuds-breakfast-and-favorite-dish-of-claude-lanzmann-and-thomas-bernhard-filetalamericaine-steakalamericaine/)  
> [Hemingway’s Bacon Wrapped Trout](https://huckberry.com/journal/posts/provisions-hemingway-s-bacon-wrapped-trout)  
> [Smoked Tri Tip](https://saltpepperskillet.com/recipes/smoked-tri-tip/)  
> [Braised Short Ribs](https://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/braised-short-ribs-heaven-on-a-plate/)  
> [DIY Dog Food](https://damndelicious.net/2015/04/27/diy-homemade-dog-food/)


End file.
